


Well This is a Fine Mess (Grievous x Fem!Reader Oneshots)

by Sindrak



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Grievous is probably very OOC, Making up stuff about Grievous, Making up stuff about kaleesh and cyborgs, Reader Insert, Set in the clone wars but everyone is from the movies, characters and tags to be added, headcanons, lots of 'em, reader's personality varies, x Reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindrak/pseuds/Sindrak
Summary: "You don't know what it is about him that you found so alluring. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe his accented voice, maybe it was the fact that he was just so different. Not in a bad way, never in a bad way... just... unique. He was beautiful and dangerous all at once—an artistic masterpiece and a deadly weapon. Nothing about him was off-putting to you. Not his reputation, not his race, not even his appearance. He was perfect, and you wouldn't have him any other way."-A series of X Reader one-shots unrelated to my main Grievous x Reader fic. Basically where I'm gonna dump my extra ideas in between working on the main story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well hi. Welcome to my probably fifth attempt at creating a drabble dump. Pretty much, when I get bored during the day and need to take a break from my main fic, I'll write a quick shot and, if I get around to editing it, I'll post it here for your viewing pleasure. These will all likely be X Reader, but there may be a few Grievous-centric bits.
> 
> Small Warning: There is one curse in this chapter. It's mild, but I thought I should let everyone know just in case.

General Grievous was _not_ a socialite. He was infamously reclusive and unpleasant at social gatherings, especially dinners. His negativity stemmed from his master, who'd practically given the cyborg any choice but to attend this particular dinner. Thrown to commemorate the alliance of yet another quadrant of the galaxy, Count Dooku had housed the party at his own estate on Serenno, inviting not only every military officer in the Confederacy, but apparently everyone he'd ever known and their mother as well because by the Gods _there were so many people here._

Grievous had found a dark corner to glower in far out of the way of the other partygoers milling about. Hardly anyone acknowledged his presence, and those who did either turned up their nose in disgust or hurriedly scurried away. It didn't matter to him, they all received a scathing glare in return either way. 

There were a few people who'd dared to enter his personal apathy corner, but they all quickly left. Those people were the ones who were allegedly close friends with the count and had only heard of the general's reputation. They ogled him and spoke to him like a droid, like a machine with oddly life-like parts and speech patterns. At one point, an older human woman approached him, and Dooku himself had been there to prevent the cyborg from lashing out like he had with his last unwanted visitors.

She just started talking. Her voice was loud and too high-pitched, on the verge of squawking at him like some overdressed bird. She'd said something about her daughter and how fascinated she was by him. This did nothing to freshen his sour mood. "Fascinated" generally meant gawking and humiliation for him, as he had learned over the years. His alien heritage on top of being a cyborg caused quite a bit of "fascination"—and ridicule. _Especially_ from humans.

But she kept talking, kept insisting he meet her because she was utterly infatuated with him. She was very aloof about it, very teasing, mocking both him and her daughter as she spoke. 

"She keeps going on and on about your eyes," she'd told him, which had actually caught his attention, _"'They're like two pools of melted gold–'_ her words, not mine. She wants to be around you or something. Isn't that just peculiar? You're a powerful droid, no doubt, but how can she feel that way about a _droid–?"_

At that point he'd broken her off by walking away, too offended to speak with her any longer and too wary of Dooku to strike at her. That was about twenty minutes ago. 

"General Grievous, sir?" A tiny voice addressed from behind.

He half turned to regard whoever it was with a snappish, _"What?"_

A young human woman stood before him, the folds of her dress clothes caught in two taut, white-knuckled fists. Despite her nervous appearance, she managed to speak with some dignity.

"I want to apologize for my mother's behavior," you said, and bowed low at the waist, "it was very rude of her to speak to you in such an inexcusable and disrespectful manner. I am truly sorry." 

He kind of just stared at you, a little lost for words as you rose back to your previous stance. You must be the daughter he'd heard so much about, then. You looked him square in the eyes, and your gaze didn't stray. You weren't gawking, you weren't insulting, you weren't mocking. You'd bowed to him and _apologized_ to him. Genuinely apologized.

"Your mother is forgiven," he finds himself saying before he can even comprehend that he'd said it. It was a lie. He hated your mother and always would, but he couldn't bring himself to verbally say negatively of her.

Your eyes light up and your previously rigid shoulders ease some, "Thank you, sir." 

He tilts his head at you, venturing, "I have heard you are a fan of mine?"

Your cheeks tint, but it's passable as getting some of your color back from being so anxious, "Oh geez... h-how much did she tell you?"

"More than any sensible mother ought to." He responded, his tone much less harsh than it had been. 

"O-oh..." your head falls and your shoulders rise again, your face slowly flushing.

Feeling somewhat awkward himself, Grievous coughs into a fist, trying to figure out a more sophisticated way to word his question. He settles for the bare minimum once the silence between the two of you stretches for far too long.

"Is it true?" He struggles to get out, feeling like an idiot, but he had to know, "What you say–about... _my eyes?"_ The last words are spoken just above a whisper and are strained, leading into another short coughing fit.

 _"They're gorgeous,"_ you breathe before you can think to stop yourself. Eh, too late now. Yeah, you respected him, but you decided you were going to be as brutally honest as you could. You've already dug this grave, time to cannonball down to Hell. You went on, "I've never seen eyes like yours. In fact, I'm immensely jealous of you." 

He chuckles—actually _chuckles_ —and it makes your heart soar. "Well, thank you, I suppose." 

"You're welcome." This boosts your confidence and you smile, deciding now would be as good a time as any to make a request, "General, sir, if it would be alright with you, do you mind if I ask some questions?"

Grievous is skeptical at first. This conversation had been pleasant so far; hopefully this wouldn't lead to any mistakes on your part. "Go on," he prompts you, preparing for the worst.

You nod, "Thank you, sir. Like I said, I've never seen eyes like yours, so–" he'd predicted this one, waiting for his spirits to fall, "–where are you from?"

He blinked at your very much inoffensive diction. He'd received this question many times, except it'd always been worded harshly. "What are you?" Was a common one, even before his accident. 

He quite favored your word choice and replied simply, "Kalee."

You make an interested sound, "Kalee? I've never heard of it, what's it like there?" 

Such a simple inquiry that had an answer longer than time itself. He could go on and on for literal days about his jewel of a homeworld and how much he loved everything about it. He tried to be short as he answered, "It's a tropical planet in the outer rim. There are jungles as far as the eye can see. From what I can recall, my village is located in a valley on the shores of a coral lagoon, surrounded by sheer mountains."

"It sounds beautiful," you comment, trying to picture it for yourself.

"It is," he agrees, closing his eyes, welcoming the images of his home planet that flash in his mind. How he missed it so.

"Sir, could I ask a somewhat personal question? I've been curious for a long time," you carefully request.

His eyes open and regard you with suspicion, but he gives you a nod anyway.

"How old are you?"

...That... that was actually a pretty good question. 

How old _was_ he? 

"I _believe_..." Grievous stresses as he searches his memory, "I believe I am forty-three. Give or take a few standard years. You must forgive me, it's not something I regularly keep track of." 

You wave it off with a grin, "That's okay. I was just curious."

"And you?" He returns the question.

You tell him your age, and he nods. Humans lived a shorter life than his people. Kaleesh could live to be nearly a hundred and thirty. The oldest living kaleesh in recent records had been a woman born to the western tribes. She'd been nearly two-hundred before the Gods reclaimed her. 

"Oh, (Y/n)!" Your mother's voice calls over the crowd.

Before you can fully turn to answer her you're grabbed by your upper arm and pulled away from the cyborg.

"Sweetie you simply must dance with this nice young man! His name is Kurt, isn't he a cutie?" She insisted, pushing you into his arms. He kindly sets you back on your feet proper and folds his arms behind his back, smiling brightly.

"Lady (Y/n)," he greets with the dip of his head, "I am Lord Kurtis Vahlorn, son of Lord William Vahlorn," he introduced. It sounded fake and practiced, and he really didn't seem like he wanted to even say it.

Kurt is indeed a handsome young man. His skin is a deep mocha color, ebony hair long and naturally wavy, pulled back into a ponytail. His brown eyes are soft, but he looks just as uncomfortable in this situation as you are.

"Uh, hi, uh–" you clear your throat, reciting your own intro, giving him your best curtsy. 

Your mother practically squeals with delight, clapping her hands and pressing them to her collarbone. You send an apologetic look over your shoulder, but you notice Grievous had returned to his defensive hunch, facing away from you. He hacks into the crook of his elbow several times before he shakes his head.

Adoringly, your mother takes Kurt by his sleeve and you by your own and ushers the two of you to the ballroom. You try to resist, glancing back at the cyborg. 

"Mom, hold on–" you manage to shrug your arm free and hurry back. "General!" 

His masked face whips around, receptor panels tilting forward in interest at the sound of your voice. His eyes brighten at the sight of you and butterflies explode in your chest. You throw yourself into the same low bow, blathering out, "Thank you for talking with me and answering my questions, it was an absolute honor and a privilege to speak with you! I hope you have a good night, sir!"

With that said, you quickly scamper back to your furious mother, who wastes no time scolding you for running off like that when there was a perfectly fine young man right here. Kurt was visibly cringing, and had noticed what you did, but didn't say anything to either of you.

-

You were a horrible dancer, but Kurt was patient with you and helped you get the basic rhythm down. He twirled you once, catching you in his arms, then walked you about the dance floor with the other couples.

"I'm really sorry about my mom," you apologize, narrowly missing his foot.

Kurt smiled despite the unfavorable situation. "I'm sorry for my dad. He gave your mom the idea."

"You're a much better dancer than I am at least." You tried positively.

"Heh, thanks. You're not so bad yourself. With a little practice, I think you could be a natural." The two of you do a quick partner swap and you're dipped before pulled back up and given back to Kurt. He asks, "Did you actually talk to General Grievous?"

"I did, yes," you confirm, not without a little pride, "why do you ask?"

"Because that's literally the most impressive thing I've ever heard in my life."

Your brows knit curiously, "Why's that?"

He twirls you a second time before responding, "Because, he's sort of General Grievous."

You scoff, "He's a lot more pleasant to talk to than you think. He's a little rough sure, and the poor man has such a cough. I hope he gets that treated. But he's polite, in his own way. He didn't yell or try to hit me."

Kurt shrugs, "Pleasant to talk to or not, it's still an impressive feat. Dad says he's seen him rip a man in half for just looking at him wrong."

You nod, wholeheartedly saying, "I believe it."

The dance ends with both your clasped hands rising up and the two of you bend into a low bow, then stand fully again. The crowd around you claps, a new round of dancers filing onto the floor as you and Kurt return to your overjoyed mother's side.

"That was beautiful! You're both so talented, I simply _must_ speak with your mother, Kurt."

"Oh, uh, you know, I may just have to give you her contact later, Missus (L/n). In fact," he humorously cups a hand to his ear, "I think I hear my father calling for me. Ah, pardon me, ladies." 

Kurt hightails it the heck outta there and you can't say you blame him. Well, now that you were back in the main foyer, maybe you could talk with the General again? You look in the corner he'd been in before, only to find he'd disappeared. Heart sinking, you look around, hoping he hadn't left for the night.

"Uh, I need to use the restroom!" you quickly say, rushing to a flight of stairs, leaving your bewildered mother to shrug and proceed to mingle with the other partygoers.

This floor is mostly empty, but there are a few people idly talking and drinking in the lounges that symmetrically branched off from the main hallway. The floor is waxed marble until the clack of your shoes disappears and you look down to see a throw rug beneath your feet. 

It wouldn't have been all that exciting, except for the distinctive footprints pressed into the plush material; six sharp impressions around one shallow dip. You felt a smile grace your lips as you followed them, nearly crashing into an ornate door. It hadn't opened when you neared it, and you feared perhaps the general had locked it until you experimentally tried the keypad.

The door slid apart, allowing you access to a wide balcony that stretched off the side of the palace. Below was an excellent view of the fountain and gardens, and high above sparkled the stars behind a slim sleeve of wispy cloud. Not far away the city glimmers in the dark, tossing artificial light across the forested landscape. You found who you'd been looking for standing at the balcony banister, sharp fingers curled around it. A breeze passes by, gently sweeping Grievous' cape to the side.

You approach slowly, not wanting to disturb his peace. You were sure he knew of your presence from the minute you opened the door. You settle on a bench beside where he stands, giving him plenty of space so as not to seem like you were trying to intrude, because really, you weren't. 

You take a glance at his masked face; he's looking straight ahead, but the gold is glossed over. His lower lids twitch minutely, as if he wants to blink but stops himself before he can follow through. He's thinking. You lean forward and cross your arms on the rail, pillowing your head as you turn it to look at him, lost in your own thoughts.

You don't know what it is about him that you found so alluring. Maybe it was his eyes, maybe his accented voice, maybe it was the fact that he was just so different. Not in a bad way, never in a bad way... just... unique. He was beautiful and dangerous all at once—an artistic masterpiece and a deadly weapon. Nothing about him was off-putting to you. Not his reputation, not his race, not even his appearance. He was perfect, and you wouldn't have him any other way. 

"What is it you humans say–it's rude to stare, is it not?" 

Snapped from your own thoughts, you blink, realizing he was looking at you. 

"Oh, I-I'm sorry, General." You apologize, sitting up straight and directing your view to the city beyond.

He makes a noise that could've been a grunt, but it was so heavily laced with synthetics you were unsure. Whatever it had been, he wasn't leaving nor was he making you leave, so you interpreted the sound as positive in some sense. 

"I was not expecting you to search for me." He quietly admits, joining you on the bench. You have to ignore the urge to scoot closer. "I never did return my thanks for our earlier conversation."

You look at him with kind eyes. "Sir, you don't have to thank me–"

"That is correct–I _don't_ have to," he interrupts, "but, I would _like_ to. To whom do I owe my gratitude? I do not believe we were formally introduced."

You can't help but feel all blushy again, "(Y-y/n)."

He rolls a wrist, prompting you. He wants your full name. 

"(Y/n) (L/n)" you provide. 

"Well then, Miss (Y/n) (L/n)," your soul melted. You never, ever, _ever_ thought you'd hear your name from your idol, "I greatly thank you for your hospitality this evening. It has been most enjoyable speaking with you." 

You had the overwhelming impulse to hug him—so you did. As soon as your cheek made contact with chilled metal and your arms had loosely encircled his ribbed middle, you almost sang, "You're welcome." 

The second those words left your mouth you realized what exactly you'd done and immediately jerked away, slapping both hands over your practically glowing face. You leapt up from the bench, spilling apologies as you speed-walked to the door. 

Grievous watches you go, slightly surprised by your actions. He couldn't have predicted any of that, but he'd be lying if he said he'd disliked it. Rarely did anyone touch him without the intent to cause harm. Your embrace had been fleeting, but even his unfeeling shell could sense how warm the gesture was meant to be. This entire night had been a change of pace he hadn't realized he needed until now. Your presence was one he sincerely liked having around, which was odd because hating people was kinda his thing. 

Perhaps it was because you didn't hate him back.

-

When dinner rolled around, you found your stomach rolling right along with it. You and Kurt were forced to sit together by decree of your parents, who sat across from the two of you, having a grand old time, but you found you couldn't stop thinking about what'd happened. Kurt kindly left you be, picking up on your current emotional turmoil and waited for whether or not you were going to ask him for help. 

_'I can't believe I did that... I'm such an idiot! Force, he's never gonna talk to me again... if I ever see him again, that is...'_ you beat yourself up over your impromptu behavior, wishing you could curl up and die on the spot.

The cheerful banter around the long dining table began to hush, but you didn't take notice until someone grabbed the back of your seat and a dark mass leaned down beside your head.

"I would like it if you met with me on the balcony when you are finished." A familiar voice rasped low, trying to emulate a whisper but just couldn't quite reach it. Chills ran over your scalp and down your spine, causing goosebumps as the looming shadow lifted. 

After a tense moment, during which you sat absolutely frozen, the dining hall had one less cyborg in it, hoarse coughing following him out.

And everyone was looking directly at you. 

Your chair screeched on the floor as you jumped from it, near sprinting after the kaleesh. You realized you didn't quite know your way around and were tempted to ask one of the sentry droids stationed at every doorway for directions back to the dining hall until you saw the familiar flutter of red and gray.

"General!" You call, running around the corner, only to ram right into his back.

Before you hit the floor he caught you by your forearm, pulling you back to stand. You wobbled a moment, rubbing the left side of your face. Your cheekbone had taken the brunt of the impact. He might be wearing a cloak, but it provided little padding. 

"That was quick," he remarked with playful sarcasm, "did you even eat anything?"

"I didn't like what they were serving anyway." You say with a shrug. 

"Ah, I see."

"What did you want to see me for, sir?" You change the subject back to the matter at hand. You'd ran after him like a lunatic after all. Best to find out why. 

His arms, which seemed to always be drawn to his torso, disappeared further into the curtain of his cape, twelve fingers bending as he thought how best to word his response. He was beginning to have second thoughts; this was absolutely idiotic. Why had he come up with such an irrational idea in the first place? He was a _general_ , Godsdammit! So why did he feel like such a _moron???_

You stood there patiently awaiting his reply, and you would for as long as it took. Or until your mother called you away, that is. You could see his inner struggle as he avoided eye-contact and his hunch worsened, hands clenching and unclenching. This was so surreal to you; here you were, your crush standing not three feet away with a request for you and he was hesitant— _General Grievous was hesitant_ —to ask it. If that wasn't _adorable_ you didn't know what was. You couldn't have thanked the universe enough. 

He stresses himself into another coughing fit. When it passes, he's apparently finally worked up the nerve to speak, "I watched you with that boy, in the ballroom," he states, and there's still some reluctance in his voice as he rasps, "I was curious to know if... perhaps you... if–" he cuts himself off with another bout of hacking, making an irritated sound once he's settled. 

"General Grievous," you address, trying to be as eloquent as possible while also fighting to keep your inner fangirl from exploding, "are you asking me to dance with you?"

He's quiet for an almost unbearably long moment.

"I understand if you decline." It would hurt, but he'd understand. Who would want to dance with _him_ of all people?

You would, and very much do. With a broad smile, you have have to swallow down your excitement and clear your throat to keep your voice steady, "It would be an honor, sir." 

-

The ballroom is void of life when you arrive. Everyone was still at dinner, most likely enjoying the end of the first course at this point. Knowing your mom, she probably wouldn't be out until she'd had fifths of everything. You had plenty of time to be with the general.

"You'll have to pardon my clumsiness. I'm not a very good dancer." You warn him, taking a look around. The space looked four times larger when it was empty.

"That makes two of us." 

The band, consisting of droids, had yet to stop playing whatever song this was. It sounded similar to the one you and Kurt had danced to. You wonder if they just looped it because Dooku hadn't cared to prepare that far. Regardless, the mechanical instruments still played, and the tune wafted through the air, echoing pleasantly in the enormous room.

He makes a sound like a cough, catching your attention. He's got one arm folded behind his back, the other extended toward you, and he _bows_ and you think you might _implode._

"My lady, might I have this dance?" He requests like a big doofus, looking up at you with his head tilted, eyes aglitter with mirth.

You play along, daintily placing your palm over his, "Why General, I can think of nothing I'd like more!" You accept dramatically, trying to keep your heartbeat under control as his much larger hand engulfs your own. 

He rises, pulling you toward him gently, then bends to accommodate the height difference. You try to stand up straighter, hoping maybe it would save him the trouble. He didn't seem bothered by it, but your arms just aren't quite long enough to reach his shoulders properly, so you settle for his upper arms instead. The cool metal doesn't bother you, if anything it helps calm your nerves.

Until his other hand comes around from his back and rests on your waist and you have to quash down the urge to squeal girlishly. 

"I had meant for this to take place outside, where there would be less prying eyes," he told you, starting to move from memory. He'd watched you and Kurt long enough to grasp the basics of the steps. 'Course, this was the first time he was executing them for himself. Good thing he was a swift learner. You, on the other hand, were not. You tried to follow his taloned feet, glancing down at the floor between the two of you. 

"I'm sorry, sir–ah! Sorry!" You'd fumbled, stepping on his foot. Not the many toes around it, but his actual foot.

He chuckles at you, "Why do you apologize so much?"

"I... I don't know. It's my natural reaction I guess?" You try to keep pace again and for a moment you think you've finally caught on. Until you practically stomp on his foot again. Your hands leave his arms to slap over your eyes. "Sorry..." 

Another light laugh leaves him. You thought you looked ridiculous to him, and for a moment you thought all his pleasantries were for show so he could just humiliate you in the end when his hands leave your form. But they come up to gingerly pull your hands from your blushing face and he craned his head to see you.

"There's no need to hide. I'm not angry with you."

General Grievous _wasn't angry??_ _That_ was an absolute shock. You'd thought by now he would've shouted about how much of an incompetent dance partner you were and that your insecurities were cowardly. You still didn't fully get why he'd chosen to continually interact with you. Yes, you'd treated him fairly and with the respect he deserves as a person and as a military officer, but had it really left this much of an impression? 

"Sir?" You address after a moment.

"Yes?" 

You were going to just lay it all out, "Why are we even doing this? I'm not a remarkable person, I'm one human out of the billions upon trillions that there are across the galaxy. Why've you decided to spend all night with me? I mean, I've only known you for two hours!" 

He doesn't seem upset. There isn't a hint of aggression in him when he responds, "Could it be that I find your company enjoyable? That I like being spoken to as an equal?" 

You blinked at him, your face much less red. "Does... this mean we're friends?" You ask childishly, forgetting he was still holding your hands until you gave his a hopeful squeeze. 

When was the last time Grievous could say he had a friend? Much less a companion, or even an acquaintance? He'd been working with mindless droids for so long that the only real social interaction he had was with people he hated to his core. He hadn't come here to make friends. He'd come so the count wouldn't punish him for not attending. He hadn't expected his time here to be anything but miserable. And then you showed up. 

Needles to say, you'd been a welcome surprise. 

The cyborg gave you a decisive nod, "I believe we are."

You couldn't stop the smile from playing on your lips, and that same impulse to embrace him overtook you again. This time you threw your arms around him and held on tight, pouring all your gratitude into this single, simple gesture. Another low noise of amusement rumbled in his chest. One of his hands came to lightly rest between your shoulder blades, loosely holding you against him, allowing his cape to fall around you, shielding you from view so you could have your moment in peace. 

You sigh through your nose, content to just cling to him and listen to his inner workings. This close, you could hear distinct clicking and soft, whispering whirs as whatever mechanisms he was comprised of worked. Interwoven between all the machinery, you could hear his heartbeat, thrumming steadily beneath his armor. Your smile widens somehow as you try to zero in on it. 

Tonight had probably been the best night you could ever remember happening. You'd met the object of your affections, though you wished the circumstances had been a little different. You feared you would make an absolute fool of yourself when you first saw him, so you hadn't approached. There was also his absolutely volcanic temper you were genuinely afraid of. But then your mother had said all those rude things to him and you _had_ to apologize. Despite your anxiety, despite your insecurities, your awkwardness had somehow charmed the Jedi Slayer himself. 

And here you were. Holding onto him like you'd known him your whole life. _And he was letting you._

You pull away after a while, looking up at him brightly.

"I think I'd like to dance with you again, sir."

His eyes, usually a barrier of molten gold and vicious ebony, reflect a smile he couldn't otherwise express. 

"You are welcome to call me Grievous," he tells you, "and I would be more than happy to dance with you, Miss (L/n)."

You can't help grinning like an idiot as you say, "Please, Grievous, call me (Y/n)."

"Well then, (Y/n)," he takes up the same stance as before, outstretching a hand to you as he bows, "may I have this dance?"

You giggle, taking his hand.

"Absolutely."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're a Jedi Knight. For whatever reason, you encounter General Grievous on the battlefield and live to tell the tale through a somewhat questionable, though hilariously effective method.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I wrote a long time ago that I may as well post. 
> 
> It's pretty short and there's not really any romance, but hopefully it's likeable enough to tide you beautiful people over till I get my requests done. ^v^

He'd killed hundreds of Jedi. Hundreds. The proof of his murder lay clasped in his four hands, blades that didn't belong to him clashing with your own. He glares at you, golden pools of molten hatred, shimmering with his telltale insatiable bloodlust. 

And yet, as he locks gazes with you, you see something new in those eyes, a flash of something that lasts only a moment before he bears down on you, using the opportunity your inattention provides. He leaves two blades—one a brilliant green, the other cerulean blue—crushed against your own, the laser swords hissing and screaming. He raises his lower arms, giving the weapons a twirl, and it dawns on you that he plans to scissor your torso clean in half.

Desperately, you call upon the Force, using the uneven, dusty terrain to your advantage, and push him back far enough to leap to safety. He snarls, talons ripping into the dirt, and the murder in his eyes increased tenfold. You barely manage to catch your breath before he moves, towering figure hunched over like a stalking predator. Adrenaline shoots through your veins and your whole body turns and bolts in the opposite direction without your consent, but you let your instincts take over.

“Coward!” He screams, and you hear his thundering footsteps over the pounding of your heart in your ears.

The greens and browns of the forest streak past you in sickening blurs, but your legs keep moving, and so do his. You clear a fallen log, make a sharp turn into the lush foliage, hoping to hide your slight frame amidst the plant life. He tears through it like paper, vocalizing his rage at every opportunity. 

Your lungs burn, your knees shake, and your thoughts spin in a dizzying cyclone in your head. You can hear him behind you, you can sense the seething red cloud that's settled over his mind—he wasn't going to stop, not until you were dead. You urged your aching legs to keep moving.

The trees part for only a moment, revealing a lakeside, the water murky and abundant with life. You run toward it in desperation; Grievous couldn't swim, he was too heavy. The general himself knew this. You're knee deep before you make a last second turn around, and he's right in your face. The world slows, and the only thing you can see is the killing intent in his eyes. Again, your body moves on its own, and you let it swing your right hand up, bracing it against one ivory chest plate, and energy curls between your fingers, lashing out at the metal beneath them.

He yells in anger as he's launched backward, and you turn around and swim, forcing your arms to propel your body and agonized legs through the silty water. You can't hear anything over your own panting, so you pause, throwing a look over your shoulder toward shore. There was a distinct lack of General Grievous, which you took as a good sign. You heave a relieved breath, twisting your body to lay on your back and let yourself float, finally resting your tired limbs. 

Your heart rate finally settles, and you listen to the wildlife around you, allowing your mind a moment of serenity. You close your eyes, sensing the fish around you, swimming away from you—?

You barely have time to snap your eyes open before something hooks your wrist and pulls you under. Air rushes from your lungs and you struggle fruitlessly, vision engulfed in green-brown murk. Something buzzes and sizzles to the left of your head and you instinctively jerk away, but your hand is still effectively caught. The lightsaber he held in one fist provided enough light to illuminate his masked face and the terror on your own. 

His glare is fierce, but you can tell he's tired too, though not for the same reason. He's tired of chasing you, you've annoyed him, you took the fun out of his game, and for that, he was going to kill you, here, at the bottom of some alien lake. 

Your chest burns, and you give him a pleading look. It only seems to agitate him further. The lightsaber boils the water around it and he draws it near. You look at his face, at those soul-shaking eyes, and one last desperate idea bursts in your mind. Using your only free hand, you call upon the Force a final time, outspeeding him long enough to poke him in the eyes, hoping you scratched something with your fingernail.

You only manage to get the left one, but it worked well enough; air bubbles erupt like a geyser from somewhere between the tubes in his throat, a distorted sound of pain burbling forth. He releases you and the blade, skeletal hands clawing at his face. You waste no time, adding insult to injury by delivering a sharp kick-off with both feet against his chest.

You broke the surface with a hungry gasp, hurriedly swimming to the water’s edge. Waist deep, you stand, pushing through the lake, exhaustion creeping into your muscles and making you slow. Something snags the back of your robes, you dimly realize it's a metallic fist, and yanks you, tossing your body back out into the water with a feral roar.

You stand, now at shoulder-level, coughing liquid from your lungs and nose. You blink water from your eyes, and you see him standing on the rocks, his left eye screwed shut, blood dripping from his mask, mixing with the lake’s grime. He's panting, his shoulder pauldrons raising and falling as if he'd just ran a marathon. The look he gives you promises revenge, and then he turns, walking away.

You wait five minutes before you swim to shore, collapsing there. You just manage to activate a distress beacon when your vision quickly fades, plunging your mind into unfeeling black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wonders why nobody has tried to poke Grievous in the eyes before*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment your thoughts. :)
> 
> I headcanon that Grievous is a better conversationalist when someone isn't trying to demean him. Also, he's squishy because I needed some good fluff because nobody writes squishy Grievous fluff.
> 
> Also, the mobile site isn't allowing me to change the chapter title or the amount of chaps?? Please note there'll definitely be more of these until I can fix this issue on my PC.
> 
> If there's a situation you'd like to see yourself in with the general, please don't hesitate to shoot me a prompt via comment or my Tumblr. They keep me inspired, and I like a good writing challenge.


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